And yeah every Show is different, every night it’s some other city’s right-angled steel bone structure (clackity jack skellington makes of the lord’s house a home wheresover creep cold fingerbones catch hold, skin of earth or heart of stone, never you leave a child alone; he’s an American too like you and you’ll be someday a skellington too like the rest of us), or a campground near enough a theatre near enough a town; and they ‘jam,’ you’re always trying to explain to your friends or whoever, twenty minutes tracing skyward a wildening helix, eight hands twined as base pairs, perfect concord. (God amighty you wish you could birth a noise so finely formed, is that what gifting birth feels like? Or being born?)
But you live in the collapsing graph edges, the higher Way, not those disembodied points. The music falls away night upon night to become beacon – huh – or to beckon, I mean, children not yet conceived of…they’ll record the notes and stops and lines but your own presence won’t quite make it onto the tape. ‘Remember that security guard who…I was there, y’know?’: but now you’re not. Rather the place you dwell, untimely, I mean timeless, is that between where you spent much or most of your life anyhow. We can’t bear to be nowhere in particular but where else ever have we been? Your Virginia isn’t mine, nor the hunter’s shed lent by generous friends where your slicksweet spiriting lips first found his, nor your spot alongside the stage at Limestone that later on in summer (in summer it’s always late) where for days upon hours she seemed glittered golden to dance laughing toward you, eyes, mouth, hands, her light…
That world America is after all only you. That body.
Somewhat ugly stopgap Kindle version coming tonight, much prettier version (and ePub?) later this week when I figure out the ins and outs of pandoc's ePub conversion scheme.